


The Dangerous World

by mydogwatson



Series: Once Upon A Time At Xmas [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Gen, War, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5474459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is at war and lonely.  Sherlock is drugged up and lonely.  Looks like another sucky Xmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dangerous World

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, folks. I am posting early today as I am about to travel for Xmas. I will still be online, posting, replying to comments, and being grateful for any kudos. Tomorrow's post will probably be late, after I arrive at my destination.
> 
> I know things have been a bit grim. It will get better. And then worse again…but you know me. All will end well. Promise.
> 
> But be honest: We love to see them suffer, don't we?

-Into the dangerous world I  
leapt.

-William Blake

 

Someone had gone to the effort of hanging several strings of colourful beads around the mess. John supposed it was an attempt to bring some Xmas cheer into a place where cheer of any sort didn’t really seem to belong. Although apparently he was in the minority who thought it was a foolish gesture, because most of the others in the hut were laughing and recalling happy holiday memories.

Feeling slightly Scrooge-like, John just kept his head down and ate the roast chicken dinner that was a concession to the holiday. He was coming off fifteen hours on duty, including three extraordinarily difficult surgeries. Two of those patients were still alive, but as usual the only one he could think about was the young man who was not. That whole operation had been a quixotic mission, because it was clear from the beginning that the gut wound was too serious. The soldier had barely any pulse when he arrived on the table.

How were some cheap red and green beads and a chicken dinner supposed to make John feel any better?

Kim Morse, who was the best nurse on his surgical team and also a tall, slender blonde, appeared suddenly and dropped onto the bench across from him. “Happy Xmas, Watson,” she said, sounding much too perky for a woman who had been standing next to him for many of the last fifteen hours.

John nodded and pushed away the remains of his meal, deciding to concentrate on his tea and slice of fruitcake instead.

Kim leaned across the table. “I received a parcel today from a friend at HQ,” she said softly. “Some really good dark chocolate and a bottle of even better port. Seems a shame not to share such bounty, especially on Xmas. If you’d be interested.”

John was enjoying the fruitcake. He took a small swallow of tea. He and Kim had been dancing around one another for several weeks now. Because of their soul-crushing workload and a distinct lack of ambience nothing had come of it yet. Neither of them even pretended that it was about anything but the physical, which he appreciated on some level.

Obviously, John had no problem with casual, no-strings-attached sex. He had not acquired his nickname by accident. But he did have one inviolable rule and absolutely no intention of breaking it now. 

John never had meaningless sex on Xmas, not since that time at uni. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he could not forget the empty feeling he’d had after that encounter with the roller blading girl. But he couldn’t really explain that to Kim. Not without sounding like some kind of a pathetic idiot.

He smiled at her; there was no sense pretending that he wouldn’t be interested in whatever she was suggesting at some other time. Just not today. “Would like a rain check,” he said. “But Xmas day…I need to be on my own.”

Kim only shrugged. “No problem.”

They chatted lightly about other things while both finished eating and drinking. Kim promised to check in on the two surviving surgical patients and took off.

John left the mess and wandered a bit. He ended up behind his own quarters and sat down on the chilly ground. It was a crisp clear night, which meant that sound carried and somewhere far off there was gunfire. Which probably meant that there might be more patients arriving at some point. He knew that it would make sense for him to go catch some sleep, but he was not ready yet.

He lay back, resting his head on his folded arms so that he could look up at the night sky. So many stars. He had never seen so many back home in England. Drowsily, he called up the book from which he had learned all about the stars and began to search for familiar constellations.

It was a comfort.

“Happy Xmas,” he whispered, sending the message out into the universe.

*

The holiday had gotten off to a cheerful start in the flat next door.

Well, at least it had done so if one’s idea of cheer included rutting like pigs, with all the attendant sounds. It all went on for an unbearable length of time. Sherlock tried to bury his head under the lumpy pillow, which didn’t help all that much, frankly.

Where the hell was Crazy Max? He had promised to be here two hours ago, with the stuff. Sherlock rubbed both hands over his chest, trying to alleviate the prickling that felt as if insects were crawling all over his skin. Which, of course, did sometimes actually happen in this hovel. But not tonight. Tonight it was just the need.

Well, ‘need’ was relative. Sherlock Holmes was not an addict. He didn’t actually need the coke. It was just that occasionally he became a little desperate.

At least the loud sex from next door had stopped and the noise soon resolved itself into the much more familiar sounds of breaking glass and screamed curses. Xmas was over, apparently.

Just as he was about to pull on some clothes and go out onto the street in search of what he wanted [which risked putting him into the view of Mycroft’s cameras, but needs must] there was a familiar ra-ta-tatting on the door. Sherlock jumped up from the bed and flung said door open. “About time you showed up,” he said harshly.

“Xmas,” Crazy Max said, unconcerned. “My usual distributer is in the Bahamas. So I had to track down someone else. Took awhile.” He held up the small packet, just out of reach.

Sherlock reached into the pocket of his grimy dressing gown and pulled out the folded notes. They exchanged items and with a cheerful “Happy Xmas” Max was gone down the stairs.

The noise from next door had settled into the usual monotonous give and take.

Sherlock could ignore it now that his salvation was so close. He reached under the bed and pulled out the antique leather box inherited from his grandfather that held his works and set about his preparations. More cheerful now, he even whistled softly along with the holiday music someone in the building had started blasting. 

For some reason, as he wrapped the elastic band around his arm, Sherlock was reminded of his one and only visit to a Santa’s Grotto a very long time ago. He had asked the old fraud for a pirate ship, which did not arrive on Xmas Day, unsurprisingly. And, truthfully, he had loved the microscope and chemistry set that were under the tree from Mummy and Daddy.

But still, it was something of a shame about the pirate ship. His life might have gone very differently had he gone to sea. He’d even had a perfect first mate all lined up. 

Sometimes the coke made him whimsical.

Sluggishly, Sherlock realised almost immediately that all was not right. Instead of the surge of energy, the fleeting euphoria, he’d expected, his body was suddenly betraying him. His chest constricted and his breathing grew laboured as his heart raced out of control. 

Panicking just a bit, he managed to reach into his pocket again, this time pulling out his mobile. Neither his fingers nor his eyes seemed to want to work properly, but he managed to hit the right key. As much as he hated his brother, it was always to Mycroft that he turned when things went wrong.

And things were going very wrong at the moment.

“What?” Mycroft said irritably. “It is Xmas---”

“Help,” Sherlock whispered, which was all he could manage before the phone fell from his fingers and the darkness began to descend.

Briefly, he wondered if help would arrive in time. Abruptly and for no good reason, Sherlock realised that he didn’t want to die on Xmas.

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow: The Best Part


End file.
